The One He Dismissed Became The One He Died For novel Chapter 142

Miles grabbed a dry towel and tossed it over Claire's head.

"Dry off completely when you're done. Don't catch a cold."

"I'm going downstairs for the first aid kit."

Peeking through the folds of the towel, Claire watched his slightly rushed retreat and let out a smug little smile.

Down at the front desk, the innkeeper dug out a small medical box and handed it to Miles, offering some unsolicited wisdom.

"A girl like that is one in a million, son. You better hold on tight."

Miles took the box, his hand pausing for a fraction of a second. He didn't argue. He just gave a curt nod.

Just as he stepped back into the second-floor bedroom, the overhead light flickered and died with a sharp pop. The power was out.

The entire motel was plunged into pitch darkness.

A loud thud echoed from the bathroom! A second later, Claire let out a sharp gasp of pain.

"Ah!"

"Claire!"

Relying on pure memory, Miles bolted blindly toward the bathroom door.

"What happened?"

"I'm fine," she hissed, her voice tight with suppressed pain. "I slipped. Is the power out?"

"Yeah, the storm is too heavy. Can you get up?"

Dead silence from inside.

A long moment later, her voice drifted out, small and heartbreakingly pathetic.

"No. Miles, I think I sprained my ankle. I can't move."

Panic spiked in his chest. "Wrap yourself in a towel. I'm coming in to carry you out."

"Okay..." Claire murmured vaguely, groaning through the pain.

The room was swallowed by absolute blackness, save for a pathetic sliver of moonlight filtering through the window.

Miles pulled open the bathroom door, and a wave of warm, humid steam washed over him, carrying her signature sweet, intoxicating scent.

There were no windows in the bathroom; the darkness was absolute. Acting on pure instinct, Miles crouched down, hands outstretched to find her.

"I'm right here," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Miles reached forward, his fingertips grazing a patch of warm skin.

The blood roared in Miles's ears.

He practically scrambled out of the bathroom, nearly tripping over his own feet in the dark, and hastily deposited her onto the bed.

He spun around to leave, but she snagged his wrist.

"Dr. Zimmerman, it's a real sprain. Aren't you going to examine it?"

"Claire!" He wanted to yank his hand back, but he couldn't bear to use too much force and risk hurting her.

He took a ragged, steadying breath. "Put some clothes on first. I'm going to find a flashlight."

"It's pitch black, how am I supposed to see anything?" she countered flawlessly. "Why don't you dress me, Doctor?"

Miles snatched her teasing, wandering hand and pinned it down.

The rejection was glaringly obvious.

Claire scoffed. Stoic gentleman, my foot! He was entirely too disciplined.

Bored of his restraint, she reached blindly for the nightstand, found his discarded dress shirt, and pulled it over her head.

"Alright, I'm decent. Check it for me. It really hurts."